Redheads
by RachelDalloway
Summary: Rose died in the sinking and how Jack deals-or doesn't-deal with it. A bit different from the way Jack usually written. Oneshot. Completed.


He'd done little in the four years since the night the _Titanic_ sank. He didn't even wander anymore. He'd tried but had only made it as far as Philadelphia. His destination had been somewhere out West-anywhere out West-but somehow he'd ended up there. Where she was from. He'd thought about leaving. There was nothing to hold him. There was nothing to hold him anywhere-hadn't been for five years and from the looks of things there wouldn't ever be. He knew he was young-only 20-and there were millions of other women in the world. He knew he could easily find another one. Women loved him. They always had. All he had to do was look at them and they'd throw themselves at him. But he didn't want another woman. He wanted her. He could never love another woman the way he loved her.

So he remained alone, shutting himself off from the rest of the world, only interacting with others when forced to by necessity. His former optimistic personality seemed to vanish overnight. He just couldn't see the point anymore. He found that not much matters after you find the other half of your soul and then lose her forever in the same breath. Eventually he withdrew into himself completely. During the day he worked, paying just enough attention to get whatever menial task was assigned him done without drawing attention to himself-positive attention included. At night he lay in bed and dreamed of her.

He still drew. Her. Always her. Sometimes he'd pick up the pencil intending to finally draw something else, but he never did. There wasn't anything else he wanted to see.

Women still loved him. They loved him even more now. As they watched him walk by, his eyes heavy and downcast, they couldn't help but feel drawn to him."He's so beautiful and sad," one would say. "I wish I could just take care of him, you know? He doesn't look like he bothers to eat much." "I wish I could find the girl that did that to him," another would say. He knew how women looked at him. He heard them whisper about him. But he didn't care. None of them were her. He'd walk past them without looking up from his feet, ignoring the longing glances they threw his way.

But sometimes the dreams weren't enough. Some mornings he would wake up feeling as though a fire had been lit in the pit of his stomach. He'd ignore it as long as he could, but eventually he'd have to give in, cursing his body for continuing to need. Didn't it understand the only woman he had ever truly wanted was gone?

He'd go find one anyway. A redhead. Always a redhead. With curls he could bury his face in while he closed his eyes and pretended she was someone else. He avoided talking to them as much as possible, saying only what he had to. Talking destroyed the illusion. The woman in front of him would suddenly come into focus and he'd see her for who she really was-whoever that was-and it would all be over. He needed the illusion, needed it more than he cared to admit to himself. So he kept quiet and kept his eyes closed.

He didn't let himself think about what she would say if she could see him.

He lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling as the latest one got dressed across the room. He was trying to block out the sound of her voice. He'd thought she'd take the hint and be quiet when she noticed he was ignoring her words completely, but his silence had had the opposite effect. She thought he was actually listenting intently and continued speaking.

"Oh wait, what time is it?" she exclaimed, looking around for a clock. His reply was a shrug. "Oh, it's only three," she said, sounding relieved. "I don't know why I thought it was late."

He didn't want to be-he didn't care about her at all-but he was intrigued by the relief in her voice. "Why do you need to know the time?" he found himself asking.

"My husband gets home at five," she explained. "I have to be back before he is. He can't know I was gone."

"You have a husband?" He didn't know why he was asking. It didn't matter. She was about to leave. He would never see her again. That was the way he wanted it.

"Yes, and I have to make sure he doesn't ever find out this is how I spent my afternoon," she said, smoothing her hair. "He'd kill me."

"I doubt he'd actually kill you," he said, his interest in her personal life evaporating.

"You don't know Cal," she said with a bitter laugh.

He shot straight up. "What did you say your husband's name was?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "Cal."

Surely there were others. "Last name?" he demanded.

"Hockley," she said, drawing her eyebrows together. "Why do you want to know so badly?"

_He married a redhead. Hmmm..._There would be time to ponder the implications later. "Can I see you again?" he asked, focusing his blue eyes on her and smiling for the first time in four years. He just hoped he still had it-whatever it was he'd had.

She blushed. "O-okay. When?"

"Don't worry about that now. I'll find you."

He didn't love her. He doubted he'd ever even like her. But he wasn't going to let that stop him from taking her.


End file.
